The writer is stuck.
Her phrases come out like blood clots, repeated and dull. A bruise gets a little darker the deeper it is pressed. Like a carefully choreographed ballet for the paralyzed, like an articulately arranged aria for the deaf... We are all searching for the sound, the vibration, that will motivate movement, manipulate regeneration, a defibrilliator for the vocabulary. Pressing and pushing, wrestling the vowels into submission, seducing the consonants into cautiously coaxed embraces...
Plead to Abraxas, the demon of chaos; with her mercy you will abuse your self-destruction into a Pollock-inspired interpretation of your regurgitated, inky shame. Pray on your sex-scarred scabby knees to Legion, the demon of many: with his permission you can revisit those restricted, rotting wooden doors. They crumble with crooked mold, whispering in the creaks of tug and give:
"You're not you, and you're not them. You're no writer or artist, you're a tweaking drunk biting your swollen lip at the ashy bar top."
Sorrowful lovers watch you unravel in dismay as you attempt to purge the miscalculated serotonin from your booze-soaked brain.
Mad genius? Mental case. Self-pitying victim, martyr to the arts. A blood sacrifice to the stupid altar of wasted paint.